Champagne
by Osidiano
Summary: Yet another story written for a friend with a Christmas theme. Milliardo is propositioned in an unexpected place just before Christmas Eve. But, really, no one wants to spend the holidays alone, anyway. Silly 3x6.


**Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Gundam Wing, or any of the characters used in this story. They belong to the series' creator, and whoever he sold his soul to. Do not sue me. No money is being made off this story; it was written purely for the amusement of my friend, Delle, and anyone else who decides to read it. This story, and all original concepts, are original (_duh_), and belong to me. Do not steal it, or archive it without my express permission. This fic takes place sometime after the events of Endless Waltz. Enjoy.**

**Champagne**

"You're not Christian."

It was a simple statement, though the dull and lifeless tone drew a flinch from the tall blond, who shook his head. His – he struggled briefly with the word "friend" before opting for a less binding description – companion was, of course, correct. He most certainly was _not_ Christian, nor was he Catholic, Lutheran, or any other derivation of those religions. Once upon a time, however, he had been Protestant, and now that the wars were all over he clung to those old words and meaningless beliefs with a blind and desperate tenacity. Now that the wars were over, he needed something to believe in, something to hold him to this strange and unforgiving world. He figured that God was a good place to start.

". . .No, I'm not Christian," he responded to the comment as if it had been a question in need of answering, setting down the bottle of champagne he had been considering. "Why? Is that a problem?"

"I'm just trying to understand you better," came the reply, as monotonous and bored as ever. The blond's companion reached across the cart and took the champagne bottle off the shelf, gently placing it in the shopping cart. "Tell me again why you celebrate a holiday that you don't believe in, Milliardo."

Another flinch, this time at the name. He had spent the last year as just "Milliardo," but it still sounded strange to him. And coming from his companion, it became a painful memory of space and treason. The last thing he wanted to be thinking about right now, three days before Christmas Eve, was how the young man at his side made his name sound like a military title.

"It's not a religious holiday anymore, you know; it's a _cultural_ holiday. In Europe and on European colonies, we celebrate Christmas," he nodded to himself, as if to confirm what he had just said, and removed the champagne from his shopping cart. "End of discussion."

"So you go through all the trouble and aggravation of buying gifts and preparing dinner for people you hardly know--"

"_Close family_," Milliardo interrupted with the correction.

"Like I said, people you hardly know," the young man missed nothing, slid back into the dialogue without so much as batting an eye. "Because that's just what you _do_ in Europe and on European colonies?"

Finally, a real question, though Milliardo frowned at the content. His companion once again reached for the champagne, but this time the blond caught his arm at the wrist, glaring down at the light skin on the back of the hand. He could feel the cool gaze of the young man; could imagine the look they would convey: that unique blend of idle amusement and boredom. There were few instances where he could recall having seen any other traces of emotion evident in those dark eyes, after all.

"I said," Milliardo stressed the words as he spoke slowly, deliberately articulate. "That the discussion was over. Now put the bottle down, Trowa."

"What's wrong with champagne?"

"You don't drink champagne with _dinner_, you barbarian," he huffed, tossing the hand aside as he brushed white-blond bangs from his eyes irately. "You drink _wine_, and because I plan on having lamb, it will be _red_ wine."

"You're importing meat?" Trowa was acting much more inquisitive now, and Milliardo found himself uncertainly wondering if it was an improvement. He looked up from the bottle of Black Swan that he was currently scrutinizing.

"Of course I'm importing it. We're on _Mars_, for God's sake; have you _seen_ the sheep here?" he shuddered at the thought. "Ugh. You couldn't pay me to eat that filth."

There was a light chuckle from nearby, causing Milliardo to turn towards the sound. He was expecting to see someone else in the aisle, anyone who could have been held responsible. But there was no one else, and he stared in surprise at the brunet, who struggled to regain his composure. It was truly a marvel, and Milliardo could not believe that Trowa's soft and solemn voice – which ordinarily seemed incapable of anything but those reserved and logical commentaries of his – could sound so. . .rich, so incredible low and amazingly sensual. He was rather clichéd like that; he had the kind of laugh that should only be heard in a bedroom illuminated by scentless candles and accompanied by the sound of someone applying a liberal amount of a warming personal lubricant.

"W-wha. . .what's so funny?" Milliardo hated his embarrassed stutter, cursed himself for its obvious nature. But Trowa did not seem to notice, and after a moment he even managed to stop. He looked up and met the older man's gaze with a smile. Milliardo felt the heat rush to his face in a bright band across his cheeks, positive that the former pilot could read into his thoughts, and had to avert his eyes.

"You are," the laughter was still there, adding a husky undertone to those breathily spoken words. It sent tiny shivers down the blond's spine, and brought up some interesting mental pictures to make matters worse. Trowa picked the champagne up for the last time, turning the bottle slowly in his hands. "So. . .Milliardo. Are you doing anything tonight?"

"Excuse me if I sound paranoid, but are you trying to proposition me?"

"Yes."

"In the supermarket?"

"We're in the wine and alcohol section, which makes it okay," he said it with a vague wave of one hand, as if dismissing the blond's wide-eyed disbelief. A sly smile worked its way onto Trowa's face as he continued. "But I have one condition."

"There are _conditions_ now?"

"I'll only come if we have champagne after dinner," he held the bottle out as an offering, canting his head to one side. "But if you supply the champagne, then I'll bring strawberries.-" here, he paused thoughtfully "-And whipped cream."

It took him a moment to realize what the other was implying, and he blushed deeply at the insinuation. Milliardo looked between Trowa and the champagne, a puzzled expression evident on his features. He could not believe that they were having this discussion; could not believe that he was even _considering_ taking Trowa up on his offer. Slowly, he took the bottle out of the young man's hands, setting it into his cart before beginning to leave the aisle. "_You_ are a pervert."

"Mm-hmn. . .I'll see you at seven."


End file.
